Fame Is A Bee It Has A

Will You Tell Me My Fault, Frankly As To Yourself, For I Had Rather Wince, Than Die. Men Do Not Call The Surgeon To Commend The Bone, But To Set It, Sir.

A Little Madness In The Spring Is Wholesome Even For The King, But God Be With The Clown, Who Ponders This Tremendous Scene-- This Whole Experiment In Green, As If It Were His Own!

Much Madness Is Divinest Sense, To A Discerning Eye.

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior — For Doors.

A Letter Always Seemed To Me Like Immortality Because It Is The Mind Alone Without Corporeal Friend.